Warmer than Stone
by Wermo
Summary: Set in season 5 or 6, Kyle has broken off all ties with friends, family, and love. He's living a "normal" life, and was succeeding until a girl literally fell into his arms. Now complete. Kyle/OC, for 90% of it anyway.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note:

This story is set in a fictional season 5 or 6, after a long, grueling ordeal with Latnok, Kyle has decided to break off ties with his family, his friends, and romance in general. This will be a 5 chapter story.

Although I wish I did, I own nothing whatsoever when it concerns the Kyle XY franchise.

I thank everyone who reads this or any of my stories. All I ask is that you read to the end.

***

Kyle knew he was dreaming the moment it started. It was the only time or place he allowed himself the use of his "abilities", and therefore his dreams were full of them. Pictures flashed that he knew would astound but also scare the populace: jumping twenty feet in the air, scoring a basket from anywhere on the court, walking through a burning building without getting burned. He watched his dream totally disinterested, letting the time pass until…

His eyes opened, wide awake, one second before the alarm would have rung had he set it. Another day had begun, a day of challenges, of enlightenment. Letting his thoughts wander for the requisite five seconds each morning, he added out loud, "Another day of being normal."

Wandering around the sparsely furnished apartment, he got ready for the day's lectures. No pictures adorned the walls; his clothes were prim and proper but amazingly contemporary. Nothing in his closet screamed retro or even passé. Everything in his apartment had been acquired within the last six months.

He pictured a cold stone in his mind when he felt regret trying to creep up on him. His heart hardened, regret's tendrils slipping and slapping and withering at its touch. As he closed and locked the door behind him, a slender briefcase in his fist, he plastered a small smile on his face, one that showed interest but that would also keep others at bay, especially when he avoided looking directly at nearly everyone.

Every minute of the day was planned. He took the same route through apartment buildings on the outskirts of the college, then went first to Advanced Sociology, followed by the Rise and Fall of Ancient Civilizations, then Trauma and the Psyche, and on and on until 6:30 pm when he'd gleefully sneak into a graduate level math or engineering class, marveling at how easily these topics seeped into his skin.

Mathematically, much of the western civilization seemed on the verge of total collapse, despite the comfort in the lives of the common individual. People would probably not even notice it until only 20 years were left, and then what could they do? The Rise and Fall professor seemed to notice the signs but refused to acknowledge it.

Comfort and complacency was the bane of a civilization. He'd written at length about it in his thesis for a degree he might never pursue. Unless he actually went through with the doctorate degree, he would never submit the 365 and a quarter page paper. If he did, he'd have to submit the others too, which would then mean he might have over two dozen PhD's or they might instead label him a total freak.

He was normal and determined to remain that way.

His foot froze mid way down a step in a staircase at the base of another apartment building. After a second the foot returned to its place beside the other and his knees bent. He tried to take the step – he certainly hadn't heard or seen anything – and stretched out his arms and reflexively caught someone plummeting to their intended death.

Looking up, he knew exactly how far she'd fallen and that she'd jumped directly for the steps head first, and had planned to land well behind him. Gasps and shrieks reached his ears as he turned the person around and put her feet to the ground. His smile had vanished, replaced by a frown.

She readjusted her sweater and forced some of the fabric underneath into their proper place. Although he wasn't looking at her directly, he knew she stared at him. Countless details would once have been his to unravel, but he refused them all. He was normal.

A guy ran up to them, "Woah! How did you do that?" Kyle's lips pursed tightly, as he walked around the suicidal girl and took the remaining three steps to the bottom. "Are you okay?" and "What's with him?" were filtered out so that he didn't even hear them.

He'd taken another 32 steps when his feet stopped again. This wasn't good, he realized. He turned to the small crowd surrounding the girl, smothering her, and knew somewhere deep inside him that he hadn't saved her. She was untouched by gratitude, in fact seemed hurt by far more than he'd ever thought possible. He didn't discover this consciously; the facts seemed to appear out of nowhere. Feeling his subconscious would make normal life a little difficult if he forced himself to walk away, he took a step toward her. It was followed by another, less conscious one.

Taking her arm he led her to her apartment, everything else forgotten. No one refused him.

Maybe this should have surprised him, he thought later that week, but at the time he'd simply attributed the lack of refusal as acknowledgement that he was abnormal.

***

She allowed him to sit beside her on the sofa in front of a small flat screen television. They'd sat like this for – fifteen minutes he forced himself to approximate – they'd not said a word. He barely looked at her and she barely looked at him.

"Why," was all he said. Once he'd decided to help her, his subconscious had relented with the details, only briefly showing an elevated heart beat, a bad headache, and extreme fatigue. He knew the answer to his question, and when she turned to him without a word for several minutes, he supplied the answer to her, "You're tired of living."

That seemed to push her over the edge. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her dark straight hair tangled and unkempt as sob after heavy sob racked her frame. He waited for the tears to stop, but they continued for hours. He routinely helped her to drink some water, and supplied tissues when it was necessary, but let her cry it out.

When he sensed lunch was fast approaching, he looked in her small fridge and found little but alcohol there. Realization struck him that she'd been drinking for days, staying alive only thanks to the alcohol. He promptly started opening the remaining bottles and dumping them into the sink. She didn't even notice. It was then he actually smelled the room he was in and nearly gagged. He was thankful that he only smelled it for a moment.

He called for pizza using her phone and his credit card. He'd heard from someone – he changed the memory – that pizza was great for soaking up booze. Thoughts of polarity changes floated at the forefront of his mind only briefly, but he pushed them away. He was normal, and wouldn't resort to something abnormal to clean up her system.

She'd have to sober up the old fashioned way. Thinking of which, she rushed to the bathroom, and missed the toilet.

Knowing it wasn't the first time she'd missed, he sighed, took a piece of paper and wrote a note for the pizza delivery guy who'd be coming shortly. "Leave it outside please, don't knock. For a 50, go to the convenience store downstairs and buy me these cleaning products." He left a little list.

When the pizza was delivered and he saw the note gone, he worried briefly that the police would be called in. If they came, he'd be ready to deflect attention from him to this poor girl. She sorely needed help.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard her bolt toward her bedroom and the balcony beyond. The door slammed in front of her, and he caught her as she fell back, holding her head. He knew that her head would be hurting very badly, but not from personal experience. He couldn't believe that she'd tried to do something so rash, so final, as ending her life with him in her apartment. He thanked his subconscious for closing the door but then promptly forgot about the whole thing.

Yesterday he'd never had any issues with his sanity and today his subconscious had essentially forced him to save a girl who didn't want to be saved and who lived in absolute squalor. He was determined to get her cleaned up, off the drink, and talking about the why.

When he heard the cleaning supplies being dropped at the door, he carried her with one arm and fished out the 50 he had in his pocket. He put her down but didn't let go of her, opened the door, and gave the 50 to an old lady.

She looked directly into his eyes while he focused on the gray bun at the top of her head. "It's so good of you to help the girl out sweetie, it's my treat." He pushed the bill into her hand, muttered something nice and normal, flashed a bright smile, and closed the door.

The poor pizza's smell couldn't compete with the waft emanating for several regions in the apartment, but he saw her finally notice it. It was hard to miss, he admitted, sitting on the couch. She lunged at it like a feral beast, stuffing an entire slice into her mouth.

She attempted to swallow it without chewing, gagging, and he realized with dread what she was trying to do. Kyle, not generally prone to anger or vulgarity unless absolutely driven to it, said, "Oh no you don't!" He drove his fingers into her mouth and pulled out the wet mess. She tried biting him but missed. Planting the dry hand on her shoulder – which he absently realized wasn't dry – he kept her in place as he yelled, "What the hell's wrong with you? Must I cut it into tiny little pieces and spoon feed you?"

Her first words to him were, "Am I in hell? Why are you even here?"

His mouth opened of its own accord, hanging limply. Why was he here? He certainly hadn't directly wanted to intervene in her life. He waited for his subconscious to answer, which it not surprisingly didn't. Softer, he said, compassion shining in his eyes for the first time in well over a year, "If I'm your hell, you could do worse." He refused to remember the images that tried to appear in his memory.

"I want to die dammit," she yelled and tried to slap him, but he dodged it without thinking. Her eyes opened as she tried to punch him in the head from close range but missed again. She brought her knee up and found the hand he'd had in her mouth holding her knee one inch from his groin, the wet pizza slice crushed, soaking her knee.

She growled as her shoulders slumped.

Very softly, he said, "Thou shall not kill. That includes yourself you know."

"Great, my own crazy ass angel," she muttered under her breath.

He instantly replied, "Better than a devil in my Book." His breath caught. Those weren't the words he'd meant to say. Glancing around the room, he discovered a cross beside the clock, and a smaller one above the door. The briefest image of a girl flashed in his mind's eye, but consciously ignored.

"Fine!" She sat defeated on the couch beside the pizza and started eating. No longer hungry, he washed his hands and retrieved the dozen cleaning bottles, and a large bucket and two packs of sponges sitting outside the door. There were even a couple pairs of large rubber gloves.

"Thanks lady," he said to no one before closing the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Kyle spent the afternoon and evening cleaning the apartment, while she slowly polished off the cold pizza by 9:30 pm. Removing the rubber gloves, the abrasive scent in the air battling its own war with that of decrepitude, he turned to the girl. He frowned, because she was still wearing the same clothes as earlier and he remembered the source of every stain. Most of them seemed dry by now, but they disgusted him.

Remembering her closed bedroom door, he realized there was at least one reason she'd not changed. In the back of his mind however, he knew she'd been unlikely to have grabbed a change of clothes even if he had left it open for her.

She'd barely said a word, other than curses and taunts anyway, which he willfully ignored. She refused to look at him and was pretending to watch the television. The remote was on the television and it wasn't even on.

He folded the pizza and put it into an empty blue bin, then sat beside her once again on the sofa. Noticing seemingly for the first time that she had red hair, longer than shoulder length, and a terrible matted mess, he said, a small smile spreading on his lips, "Do you want to take a shower alone or would you prefer I keep you from drowning?"

It had the intended effect: she scowled and sighed. "I have a choice?" she asked, staring directly into his eyes. Not for the first time, she furrowed her brow as she stared at him. He knew she was confused that he wasn't looking directly into her eyes.

Eyes told him things, spoke to him. He refused to look into eyes because they spoke. Could she understand that? Doubting it, he stayed silent, smiling slightly. After several moments, he broke the growing silence, "As a gentleman, I won't be staring." Raising his right hand toward the bathroom door, he said, "Shall we?"

They went into the shower and as she brought her sweater to her midriff, he turned away. She quickly removed her clothes and hurried into the shower, and set the water to a reasonable, hot setting. He inhaled the vapors coming from the shower and relaxed. He closed his eyes, sensing the water cascading down his body even though he wasn't in the shower.

Vaguely he realized it had been hours since she'd attempted to take her own life, and he was glad. He felt he was getting through to her, despite her vulgar description of him as an angel. His heart suddenly panged, making him gasp, but the memory he expected never came. When he was sure she was going to behave, he left the room and went to her bedroom.

As he'd already cleaned it – had it ever needed it – he knew where everything was. He grabbed some night clothes, some underwear, and a large fluffy towel and dropped it off on the sink beside the shower. He left and closed the door.

There was a broad smile on his face as he reveled in the good feeling one received when doing something for someone else. The water was still running when he heard her open the shower door, scamper silently to the vanity above the sink, and open it.

Opening the bathroom door, he stared intently at her forehead, and she halted, looking righteous and indignant that he'd caught her with a finger to her razor. "I need to shave." She made no attempt to cover herself.

"That's not why you're looking for the razor."

She puffed and brought fists to her hips. "And how do you know what I'm thinking?"

His eyes softened, and glanced for a millisecond to hers. It was a mistake, for he instantly knew without a doubt what she'd planned. "You thought maybe you'd wet the blade for a few seconds, bend over and make a few long strokes, to put me at ease, and then straighten and slit your throat with a vicious swipe or as many swipes as was necessary before blood clouded your vision." He'd felt oddly detached as he'd reiterated this to her, but was confident as to its content.

His eyes returned to her forehead. She quickly retreated to the shower, without the razor. Her voice quivered, "I'll be done soon."

When she emerged, dressed in the clothes he'd picked, with a large brush in her hand, she headed to the refrigerator. He thought briefly of smiling but instead left his face blank.

To her credit she didn't immediately burst out in curses. She stood there, in front of her nearly empty fridge, mouth agape, turning first to it then to him. Without betraying his thoughts, he silently counted the number of times she looked inside it.

She closed it with a lot more restraint than he'd predicted, walked to the sofa and dropped there in a heap. She started to cry again. He walked slowly until he stood beside her, crouched, and gave her a hug. "You wouldn't be doing this unless you were an angel," she muttered between sobs. "I can't be saved. I want to die."

His lips trembled as he felt the emotion in her words. He didn't need abilities to tell she believed it. "Why?"

She laughed, tears flowing freely. "You're the angel! You tell me."

He wanted to hug her harder, to make her feel again, anything but pain and suffering. "No Liz, short for Lizzy, not Elizabeth." Her sobs halted abruptly, and he continued, "You tell me. Get it off your chest." Resolved to listen only to her, he intently ignored the memory that surfaced of a younger man teasing him about common expressions.

"You won't leave me until I tell you?"

"I still won't leave, not today, and not tonight."

She tried in vain to separate herself from his hug; he'd formed a protective shell around her. He'd be her cornerstone if it meant she returned to the world of the living. She slumped deeper into his soft embrace. Hearing her breaths slow made him happy. When she was calm, he released his hold on her, and she came out of his hug with something like awe in her eyes.

Her eyes fell to the floor but no blush came to her cheeks. Tapping on the cushion beside her, she invited him to sit. She started to speak. With her words, she painted a loving little girl, living in a little house on a hill, with two much older sisters and an even older brother. Their father battled cancer for years, and bed-ridden, the secret that her mother was being unfaithful with his best friend had fallen to her.

Her mother and the friend were so discreet and believable that everyone had believed them over her. She was ridiculed for her overactive imagination. The moment she could do so legally, she left her mother and lived on her own.

She'd been strongly sheltered as a child and was soon taken advantage of by strangers, introduced to alcohol and drugs, and soon engaged in prostitution to make ends meet. She was spiraling out of control when one day her big brother pulled up at the corner she was working; she'd been so far gone and had been so detached from her family that she hadn't even realized it was him. She'd given him her pitch, promising a good time.

When he'd said her name – her real name – she shamefully got into his car and tried to clean up the shambles of her life. They'd driven for three days to their new home on the east coast, in Manhattan. Her mother and new husband, her dad's best friend, had won the lottery and were sharing it with everyone but her.

Despite going to regular AA meetings and into a drug rehab centre, she was constantly teased and ridiculed for having led a destitute life when she could have stayed and reaped life's rewards. Her family was far from religious; she'd picked that up from a friend she'd made at the rehab centre.

Tears flowed from his eyes as she eloquently told her life story in amazing detail. She was in college taking journalism, but he felt she would do much better writing poignant, heart wrenching books. Halting the errant thought, he listened more.

The black sheep of the family, and sensing no end in sight, she returned to drinking, and then again to drugs until her brother found her stealing from their mother. He'd beaten her that day, the first time he'd ever laid a hand to her. In his brand of remorse, he sent her away to college, all prepaid so she had no need of money. She even had a comprehensive meal plan, which she'd recently sold to a rich kid for a wad of cash. Then she'd bought all kinds of booze, drank for two weeks, hoping to die.

She hesitated, unwilling to continue. He stared at her nose, then her forehead. He urged her to fill in the gap that he knew she'd created. It felt like a white space on an elaborate canvas, or a gaping hole in a beautifully woven tapestry. The why still hadn't been completely answered.

"Two days after he'd sent me to college, they all went on a trip."

"On the plane that crashed in the Atlantic," he supplied.

She nodded, having noticed his tears. "No one survived. No one knew where I was; my brother had never told anyone where he'd found me, nor did he ever say where he'd sent me." She looked into his eyes but he stared at her eyebrows. "It's been four and a half months since they've been gone and now the entire estate went to his ex-wife and their kids." She took a deep breath. "Because his ex-wife died fifteen years ago, the money went straight to the kids. They've both got kids of their own," she started to sniffle, "and although I could fight the estate settlement, they'd lose everything and probably have to repay what they spent and it just would end up a huge mess." The deep sobs started anew. "They're cute kids; they deserve it a lot more than I do."

"Have you talked to them?" he probed.

"They claim I was on the flight and that I'm dead," she said matter-of-factly.

"DNA would prove who you are." He now knew exactly why she wanted to be dead; everyone she knew and loved, despite mistreatment, was dead. Even strangers didn't believe who she was. He hadn't seen any sign of ID anywhere either, and knew she wasn't carrying any. He wondered if the college even realized she was currently in attendance. Remembering the state of the apartment, he thought probably not.

He could think of many things she could do with her life, wholesome things, things that didn't involve alcohol or drugs, and that she could rebuild her life, find love, get married, have –

An unbidden thought appeared before his eyes. She couldn't have kids – gonorrhea – she'd only be able to share her life with a husband, and she didn't think particularly highly of those either. She'd likely be alone much of the time, bouncing from one relationship to the next, never committing to one person. His resistance weakened for but a moment.

What if he changed her, healed her? Wouldn't she have to heal herself first?

He found her staring at him, at his eyes, at his lips. She moved forward and he resisted the reflex to dodge. Her lips found his, her hands rested on his shoulders. Her tongue sought entry into his mouth but he did not comply.

His heart remained cold.


	3. Chapter 3

They parted, or more specifically, she withdrew. He'd closed his eyes, resisting any urge to rekindle his heart. He didn't care why she'd kissed him, why she'd done what he'd only let two –

"No!" he yelled to himself in his head. He banished all thought of either one. His heart wanted to crumble, but he refused, hardening it further. Tears appeared in his eyes, which he did nothing to conceal. Let her think whatever she did.

She got up and smoothed her pajamas, long unflattering ones that covered her entire frame from head to toe. He'd picked them absently, yet also because he'd foreseen a possibility…

"I'm going to sleep." She took a few steps toward her bedroom. "Will I be able to open it now," she asked, referring to the door.

He continued to sit on the sofa, without looking at her. "Yes," he said. After noticing her increasing pace, he added, "But you won't be able to open your balcony door, or so much as break the glass, so please don't try."

She stopped at the door after opening it. "How do you do it? Am I already dead? Are you just teaching me a lesson or something?" She was flushed, whether by all her tears or by the warm spring air outside. She was wearing flannel after all. He was deep in thought, trying to reorganize his thoughts. He'd not been shaken like this for – some time.

He ignored two questions, "You're not dead yet."

"So you did catch me!" She moved closer to him, but he refused to look at her. "We're on the fifth floor, how did you catch me?"

He shook his head. "I didn't try to catch you, I just did."

Her eyes scrunched and she smirked, "What?"

"Didn't you notice me walk away after catching you?" If he allowed this conversation for too long, normal was going to be jumping out the window. A chuckle came unannounced from his mouth. His mind was whirling with conflicting thoughts, feelings, vague impressions. He shut his mouth and his brain, leaving him in quiet. He sighed.

She didn't answer right away. "I don't believe I have to tell you I wasn't thinking straight this morning."

"You could have fooled me. You've been thinking of nothing but suicide all day."

She took another step forward. "You know why. My question is: why are you still here?"

He turned and looked at her forehead once more. His brow seemed to furrow of its own accord. "Suicide is an end. It's the end," he added, emphasizing "the". "I know more than fifty religions that include an afterlife, or reincarnation in some shape. I don't personally know if there is one, but don't you think that your friend from rehab, Sam, would be unhappy with you for picking the easy way out?"

"It's the only way! I have no future!"

"Futures are made," he replied, sounding like an old cliché. He'd been watching too many movies in the past year. Three was too many; his speech was forever altered by lazy writing. He chuckled again, closing his eyes as he shook his head.

His hand came up, catching her wrist in mid air, an inch from his face. Her eyes ogled, and she stood sputtering that he'd not seen it coming. He chuckled, thinking the answer, "I felt it." She backed away, retreating to her bedroom, and slammed the door behind her. He yelled to her, "Good night! I'll be right out here."

More than two hours would pass before he fell asleep.

***

Strangely he'd had no dream, but now he was awake, wide awake. It was early in the morning, just after three, and he instinctively knew she was too.

He heard her groan, and heard her hands rub against her temples. She was shivering.

Banishing his enhanced senses, he stood and knocked gently on the door. "Do you need help?"

Another groan, a little louder this time, as she got up. He opened the door and stood aside as she raced to the bathroom. Had she had to open the door herself, she would have splashed everywhere. His presence was needed.

Sighing, he noticed she'd peeled off everything but her underwear. He'd known it was too warm outside for the huge flannel thing he'd given her. He turned around as she finished, and waited some more as she hurriedly brushed her teeth.

As she passed him he lightly put his arm around her. Her shivering halted immediately as she turned to him. "You're still here," she said.

He nodded, not trusting his morning breath. It would be easy to get rid of it, he thought.

Seeing the two sofa cushions standing up on one end parallel to each other, she turned to him. "Where are you sleeping?" Looking back at the cushions, she amended her question, "Were you sleeping?"

She shook her head and grabbed his arm and pulled him along into her bedroom. "Sleep in my bed. I won't bite, I feel like crap anyway." She promptly got into bed, curled up into a ball, and closed her eyes, almost instantly asleep.

He stood there for minutes, wondering if it was wise. If his subconscious wasn't alerting him to her every move, he would have been wary. Grabbing the sofa cushions and putting them where they belonged, he removed his shirt but kept his pants on and crawled into bed beside her.

***

He woke up the moment she did, but very tired. His arm was draped over her waist; his hand covered her belly button. She sighed, and closed her eyes, then backed into him. He got up in a hurry, trying to evade the sensations and memories trying to invade his conscious mind. Had he stayed for a single second, he was certain he'd have felt a flood of emotion.

He found himself falling for her, despite the irrationality of the pairing.

She was messed up, had been trying to kill herself all day yesterday, he argued.

You're pretending to be normal, came the unbidden reply.

Arguments on both sides came and went faster and faster, until he grabbed his temples with his hands. "I am normal!" he shouted, waking her with a start. His breathing was ragged, and he was sweating. He saw her eyes fall to his smooth stomach, and her eyes widening when she noticed what was missing.

He cut off her unwelcome retort by turning around, grabbing his shirt, and saying, "I am human."

"As opposed to an angel," she offered, sitting up and holding her head with one hand. Her voice seemed to laugh a bit.

"I'm not an ali…" he started yelling, then calmed inside to finish, "…en. I'm not an angel, or an alien."

"Your belly button."

Despite it being a statement, he answered it like any question, "A small overlooked detail, easily explainable." His shirt was on again, hiding the mark of his abnormality. His mind was racing. "Get dressed please," he muttered as he stepped out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He walked out the front door, walked down the stairs, and down to the convenience store at the bottom of the stairs. Seeing all the canned goods and nothing particularly fresh, he turned around and went to his apartment.

One hour and nineteen minutes later, he knocked at her apartment door and waited for all of three seconds before she opened the door, properly dressed, made up, and looking pretty. He could tell she wasn't feeling well, and wouldn't feel truly well for many days, but he was happy when she opened the door for him.

"You changed, showered, shaved, and made brunch," she said, eyeing the hot food in the crook of his arm. She seemed hungry, which was a good sign. She was alive, which was an even better sign.

"Brushed my teeth and my hair too," he said with a small smile.

He set the large container on the small kitchen counter. When he opened it, she approached and breathed in the contents. "Those are waffles," she exclaimed.

"Blueberry waffles," he amended, shutting out the reason why he loved these so much. "And eggs, and bacon, and toast." He said each as he removed them from the large container. "I didn't eat a lot yesterday; I'm hungry."

They ate in relative silence, she stared at him between ravenous bites, and he looked fixatedly at her forehead or anywhere but her eyes. In fifteen minutes it was all gone.

She took the empty dishes and brought them to her little sink, and started to clean them. Over her shoulder, she asked, "That was delicious. Um, I guess you're cutting class to be with me, right?"

He nodded.

"I haven't been to any of my classes in weeks, and don't want to go really. Would you mind if I joined you in your classes instead?"

She appeared hopeful. There was such a change in her from yesterday, and yet he knew that part of the reason was because she had talked about her past, her circumstances. There was still some uncertainty that she wouldn't still try to take her life, but he didn't think she would. After all, when he'd left she could just as easily ended it two minutes later.

Taking a deep breath, he said, "Sure." He waited for her to finish the dishes and they were soon on their way to his apartment. When he unlocked the door and let her inside, she looked around and stopped in the middle of the small living room. She stared at the walls, which were bare.

"This could be anyone's room," she said, obviously perplexed.

"It's mine, it's functional," he said as he gathered his things from his closet. He'd already decided that he'd only bring her to a third of his classes. He didn't want to answer too many personal questions.

She stared at him, her mouth open a bit. She tapped her chin with her right hand. "You've eaten and slept here, sure, but have you lived in it?"

"Of course I have," he said.

"Have you partied here?"

"No." He realized where she was going and didn't like it. He contemplated leaving her at her apartment for the day but also knew he couldn't.

"Have you ever had a friend over for a drink?"

He intentionally answered part of the question. "I don't drink."

She was growing irritated, but caught on remarkably fast. "Do you have friends?"

He shrugged. "You," he asked, meaning that she was the closest thing to a friend that he had here.

She misunderstood. "College is for friends, parties, and sex!"

Shaking his head, he replied, "It's for running away." He'd meant to say "for learning" but his subconscious was trying really hard to irritate him. To think it had sat there in the background for twenty months until Liz fell into his arms before starting its offensive. Now he was questioning his sanity. It was a battle of wills that could shatter him. Was he doing the right thing?

Memories tried to resurface but he pushed them away. It was too soon, and there were far too many! Tears were falling down his face. His eyes closed as he shuddered and cried. Her arms circled him, and she held him for a change.

He felt her compassion, her understanding, seeping through his skin. Feeling the beginning of a connection, he broke it, not wanting to feel the baggage that came along with it. They stood there beside his little kitchen, in her arms, for several minutes until he composed himself.

"You listened to me, please let me listen to you," she said as she dragged him to his couch.

They sat side by side for minutes that he didn't want to count. He still knew the number of minutes that had elapsed, even though he'd learned control. The beginning of his tale would only come at the end, he knew, because he'd all but forgotten it. He would start with semi-random thoughts, then move to more specific ones, to actual memories – he pondered if he should show her the memories instead of just telling her – before coming to the forgotten reason.

She was warmer than the cold stone that he had beating within his chest. His heart of stone was already crumbling, revealing the warmth, but also the hurt within.

She had never asked, never intruded, probably because at first she hadn't cared, but now that she clearly did – he saw it in her eyes as he looked straight into them for several seconds – he began by revealing his first secret.

"My real name is Kyle Trager." He'd been calling himself Shawn Hill for so long that his skin literally tingled when he said this most basic truth. He saw her mouth his name, committing it to memory, but otherwise remain silent. He continued, tears running down the whole time.


	4. Chapter 4

He hadn't told anyone his real name for over twenty months, and it felt good.

Continuing with some random thoughts, "I have a family living in Seattle," he paused when a strange feeling washed over him, "My adopted family."

When he stopped for a little too long, she prompted him to continue. Following a deep breath, "I was 16 when I was adopted, with no memory of my past. I was a blank slate, even unable to speak." He smiled, remembering his first words. "My first words were crudely spoken, purely imitated, but I asked for juice."

She was clearly perplexed but remained silent.

"I had a younger brother and a sister my age, and they taught me so much about life." Tears started again. "My mom – she seemed to always be my mother even when she was my therapist – she cultivated love and honesty she found in me, and made it grow until it was my whole being, my existence."

He looked into her eyes, ignoring what they said, but relishing that she noticed he was gazing directly at her. It was refreshing to notice he could look at someone's eyes and not see everything. Smiling through the tears, he said, "My father was rather territorial when some strangers came to the house, claiming to be my biological parents. I never let on that I noticed it of course, but I was really touched. In fact, everyone I knew, everyone whose lives I'd touched, missed me terribly even before I'd left."

Without using his hands, the tears dried up on his face in less than two seconds. He closed his eyes when he saw she wanted to ask so many questions, questions he wasn't quite ready to disclose. "I'm not normal," he said shakily. "I was born artificially when I was physically 16 years old. My brain is fully developed; it's the reason I can do many of the things you've seen."

It didn't surprise him when she said the three word question. "Your belly button?" He could see female hands touching his flat stomach in his memory, but they were ghostly, not ready to emerge from the depths.

"It's a remnant from being physically attached to the placenta when inside the womb. I was never in a womb." The rest was obvious. She pondered for several minutes, soaking it in. Her crazy ass angel, he thought to himself with a chuckle, was a crazy ass pod-born human.

Her next words did surprise him. "You didn't try to catch me?"

Unable to suppress a heavy sigh, he replied, "No." Looking once more into her eyes, now brimming with fresh tears, he added, "A part of me did." He'd fought it until he'd stopped 32 steps down the path and looked back at her, surrounded by people, strangers. Somewhere inside he'd realized just by catching her that she was very much like him, that he needed her as much as she needed him, to both remove themselves from destructive paths.

She'd been clearly willing to destroy herself. He on the other hand… He just couldn't see it yet, nor could he admit any of it yet.

"Does drinking even affect you?" she probed.

The first huge grin came suddenly on his face. "Yes it does." He vividly remembered a friend, by the name of Declan, who'd brought him drinking while underage. Then, another memory, somewhat incomplete he felt, when inside a impound lot where he cleaned out his system in one massive burst. "I don't have to vomit, and don't get hangovers."

She said, "Every teenager and young adult on the planet would like to be you just for that ability alone!"

She smiled broadly. His breath caught as he looked at her more closely than he had all day yesterday. Liz was a pretty girl, not dainty by any means, with bouncy red hair and red lips to match. Her face could have shown him many of the trials she'd faced, but it looked like she'd turned the corner, already. He realized that she'd be feeling greater and greater amounts of withdrawal symptoms before she fully turned to the better, unless…

Of course! Why hadn't he noticed it sooner? He knew the answer to that, and would undoubtedly berate himself for brazenly abusing his power, even if subconsciously. She wasn't going to feel any symptoms because he'd healed her as they'd slept. She could even have her own kids now, but how could he tell her that without appearing pompous, or making her feel greedy, to want more and more out of him until he fai—

When he looked into her eyes, he saw her realization. He'd been looking where he shouldn't have, she'd seen it, but instead of thinking sex, she now realized he was still a virgin. It was by choice, he thought fiercely.

She gasped, unable to speak. She clutched her lower abdomen, "You know about the STD?"

He refused to come right out so he went around it, beating the bush a few times on the way round the mountain. "I knew about it yesterday, last night actually. Knew," he repeated, "knew."

She scrunched her eyes, trying to make sense of him and his words. "It was asymptomatic for well over a year, and when I saw my family doctor when Nick brought me home, she found my tubes shriveled and worthless." She looked at his small encouraging smile, the confirmation in his eyes. "Not that it mattered to me at the time of course. It was cured really fast with antibiotics."

"And you had a new infection last night," he supplied. It was nonetheless refreshing to have been wrong about the timing of the original infection. He was happy he couldn't predict everything.

Her eyes opened wide, "I did? I do?" She was silent for a moment, revisiting the couplings she'd had over the past year. He didn't doubt there were more than a few. Since she'd been completely sterile, she'd not taken any precautions against infection either.

"Did," was all he said.

"What do you mean," she started to ask. When he smiled a little more, and looked down to the floor, somewhat sheepishly, he gasped sharply. He felt the liquid forming in her eyes before he realized that he was using his enhanced senses again. The fresh tears stayed in her eyes as she cupped his cheeks. He knew she wasn't going to kiss him again, at least not yet. "You," she paused, breathing quickly, "cured me?"

He rolled his eyes and nodded slightly, unable to voice the confirmation. When she fiercely hugged him, giggling, he muttered in her ear, "Use condoms too."

Her giggles jaggedly cut short, she pulled back, "Oh come on! Why?" She nearly planted a kiss on his mouth but thought better of it.

An indirect answer felt best, because it would also delay his discovery of his secrets. "How are you feeling today?"

Taken aback at his question, she took stock of exactly how she was feeling. She mildly touched her head, and put a hand to her stomach. He knew she tried to gag, but somehow couldn't. "Great." A thousand questions appeared in her eyes, and this time they all appeared in his head. He felt compelled to answer all of them, but for that he'd have to bring her into his memories, and he was as yet unwilling to do that.

Shutting his eyes and his mind to the new onslaught, he blurted out, "You can now have babies!"

All sound stopped, all movement stopped. Even her tears and giggles seemed to stop. She pulled away from him, stood, and then took a few more steps.

"It was easier than curing cancer," he told her, not that she'd believe it. She already no longer believed him. She turned back, and he glanced in her eyes, saw the doubt, fear, and joy, and he smiled at her tentatively.

"Why me?" she asked, turning his back to him. "I was depressed and wanted to end my life for days before I convinced myself to go through with it."

"Because you weren't hopeless I guess, though maybe it's because you fell into my lap, so to speak." They both smiled, but he noticed hers trembling.

Somberly she said, her smile vanishing, "I have no money and I have no future."

Noticing he'd expected this outcome, he said, "You can come home with me." The word home on his lips gave him goose bumps. He felt several connections wash over him all at once. He knew who they all were, and where they all lived, what they felt, and was only vaguely surprised that only one person remained in Seattle. He even felt the new connection to the girl in front of him. "Liz, you can build your life with my friends and my family, and I can share some of my money to get you started."

She took the hand he offered. "You have someone waiting for you," she asked, already knowing the answer.

He couldn't help but smile broadly at the image in his mind's eye. Yes, she was very special to him, and she to him. He never answered the question, but he felt that she was satisfied to be his friend. They walked out the door, leaving the door to his apartment unlocked. A note was left on the door, "Free to those who need it." There wasn't much, except perhaps for the twenty-seven theses on topics ranging from pure mathematics to ancient civilizations and biodiversity.

He would never have published any of them, not as a "normal" human anyway. Now that he was Kyle again, he held Liz's hand and together they skipped across the grass, forgetting about changes of clothes, about money, or normalcy. They were new, alive, enjoying life, as opposed to simply existing.

When they reached the airport, they ate a succulent lunch, the best tasting meal they'd had in months, and tried to buy plane tickets when they realized that without ID she couldn't do so.

"Are you okay with driving," he asked.

She nodded. "I'll even help with the driving. Where to Kyle?"

He could only smile at the thought. "To her."

Their hearts were glowing, and he noticed his heart matching hers in rhythm. He didn't feel anything for her specifically, but knew he could love her if he didn't already have someone. That someone was a beacon, pulsing brightly, pulling him southward. He allowed the impression of a city to materialize. "To Austen, Texas."

They took their time with the trip, considering they'd both been procrastinating heavily when it came to living life. They stayed in hotel rooms when they grew tired, ate great meals, and talked endlessly about themselves and their pasts. The differences were striking, but welcome. Those same differences defined them, molded them, and their friendship grew.

He told her about many of the misadventures he'd had with the Trager family, with Jessi and Amanda, the love triangle that eventually melted away and they all became steadfast friends.

His stomach knotted at that last thought, but he didn't know why. He shrugged it off, dozing.


	5. Chapter 5

They were now only a few hours from Austen, in another fancy hotel room. Having awakened a few hours before her, he'd packed their lone suitcase that held the new clothes they'd bought on the way, and the few amenities that were always needed during a long trip.

She came out of the washroom, with a smile on her face. "I'd forgotten how annoying periods are."

That was a topic he'd never really examined in any great detail. He answered her with a shrug.

"Hey, what's wrong?" she said, coming closer. He realized she'd noticed he'd been a bit quieter than at any point in the last week. Undoubtedly she'd even noticed them stop at a new hotel only after a few hours of driving. She hadn't argued his decisions even though it was clear procrastination. He knew quite well that she liked him, and he found her company pleasant, but he simply couldn't shake the dread that had been gripping him for three days now.

He'd considered changing their destination – he had plenty of money to travel for quite some time – but whenever he started to say so, something else popped out of his mouth. The last time had been yesterday.

The decision made firmly in his mind, he said, "I'm hungry." Holding his anger in check, he tried again, "I'm sleepy." Nothing worked.

Liz looked at him quizzically. She was smiling, thinking him funny probably. "We haven't even driven for ten minutes yet." His brow was deeply furrowed as he glanced at her. He saw concern in her eyes, but the beginnings of love too. "Do you want me to drive," she asked finally.

He accepted and they soon switched places. He sat in the passenger seat for five minutes, trying to reason out the source of his dread, of the fleeting memories still haunting him. He drifted off to sleep suddenly, taking him by surprise as vivid dreams surrounded him, making little sense.

In one dream he saw his brother Josh with a girl he thought he recognized but couldn't place. He could feel the place calling to him though: Connecticut. A little four year old girl came into view giggling. The lilting sound made the dream lose focus.

In another he spied upon his sister Lori who sat on her bed practicing her guitar. A back-up singer knocked at her door, announcing, "Five minutes." Lori, a broad smile on her face, bounced off the bed and followed the girl to the stage. The crowd's applause dissolved the dream.

A distraught voice behind him hooked his attention. An old blond woman sat in a little room, on a rickety chair, mumbling to herself. None of her words made sense; it was like she was speaking an entirely different language. He couldn't fathom why his mother Nicole looked so old, so decrepit, so broken. He wondered where his father Stephen was before the dream dissolved.

The one to his right was particularly fuzzy, unlike any dream he'd ever had before. It was a stationary dream too. The fog seemed to scatter as he focused on the dream. A small clearing in a forest spread out before him. His vision glued to three small headstones jutting from the tall grass. In a few years, they'd likely be obscured. He made out the first: Adam Baylin, his genetic father, even though he hadn't been conceived naturally.

The second was harder to discern, but was unmistakable: Tom Foss, his protector.

But try as he might, he couldn't focus on the third headstone.

***

As always, he woke before Liz touched his shoulder. He had to glance around and rub his eyes before he even remembered his name. He knew now why the dread was so heavy in his heart, and in his bones.

He wasn't 22 years old, but 34. He'd been running for twelve years, but looked no older than twenty. Physically he was no older than twenty, and would never have to be. The pit of his stomach knotted so tightly he bent forward with a small moan. Liz had already parked the car at a gas station and frowned at him in concern.

He'd lost Amanda's heart when she'd jumped in front of a bullet aimed for him. With his mind he'd removed it and healed her, but she'd never looked at him the same again. She and her mother had moved away that very night. She was still his first love – he still remembered the smell of her neck, the taste of her lips.

His heart ached for the first person he'd lost.

Stephen had put himself in danger for him and Jessi and had paid the price with his death. No matter what he said to his mother, Nicole had been a shell ever since. His heart cracked for the second and third people he'd lost.

His throat constricted as he fought a sob. "We'll find a hotel right away," Liz said.

***

He sat in bed with his clothes on, while Liz gently massaged his broad shoulders. Tears were flowing down her cheeks from the story he'd just shared, but he wasn't done. He'd already shared that Jessi was born artificially, as he had been, and they both could do wondrous things.

"My sister Jessi and I decided we had to get away, to save the rest of our family and friends from harm. We talked with Foss at the otherwise abandoned warehouse, and he encouraged us to protect each other, but to go north to Canada.

"Amanda was still on my mind, even after two years, and Jessi consistently lied that she understood. She loved me so much! She devised a way for us to change our appearance, and a way to split our minds and become normal." He put his right hand to hers on his shoulder. Tears sprang from his eyes in a flood. "She transformed herself into Amanda, even played the piano, and we lived in bliss for 28 months before she was driven insane and she hanged herself from the chandelier."

Liz hugged him fiercely, joining him with her sobs. "She was three months pregnant with twins," he added when he wasn't choking on bile.

They stayed like that for hours; she rocked him, smoothed his hair. Eventually he became so tired of crying and reliving his past that he fell asleep. He knew she'd held him the entire time, kissed his forehead, and even his lips a few times, but that as he slept, it was only her attention, her love that kept his heart from hardening again.

One more time he would have forgotten his entire past, gone back to school as someone else, and try to be normal for a few years until his subconscious grew strong again. He knew well that this cycle could have repeated many times without her presence, her care.

When he finally awoke, she was asleep. He kissed her on the lips, thanking her with all his heart. The smile that appeared on her lips afterward did not escape him. He left a note for her not to worry, that he would return after he visited Amanda.

He had to reconnect with his past or it would hide itself again. He'd start with her, then with Josh and Andy – since they were closer than Los Angeles where Lori was. His unborn children were the reason for his not remembering Josh's wife's name because he'd wanted to call one Andy or some derivative of it, maybe even Andromeda. Another tear tried to creep out of his eye but he forced it to reabsorb into his skin.

He'd then care for his mother and soften the shell she'd built to protect herself. She wasn't so old that she should live the rest of her life broken. She wasn't even 60. They might live apart, his family, his friends, but he would reconnect with them all, and with work, never leave them again.

***

Standing before a strange door, he hesitated for only three and a half seconds before he knocked. It was a large house, with a single fancy car – baby blue interestingly. He tried not to be disappointed when he heard three heartbeats inside the house.

It wasn't long before she opened the door. "Yes, can I help you?"

He couldn't help but gasp. Her blonde hair went half-way down her back, her dress was stately and proper as she'd always been, and her lips were full. Her eyes were suspicious but kind. "Amanda," he barely managed to croak through his constricted throat.

She tilted her head to the side, frowning, "Yes?"

"It's Kyle. I know I don't –"

Her mouth opened wide as her eyes filled with tears. She rushed into his arms, surrounding him with hers, enveloping him in a cocoon of softness from which he didn't want to ever emerge. He'd already lost her twice, and couldn't bear to lose her again. "Kyle, is it really you?" She pulled away, to look deeply into his eyes, the only part he'd left the same. Without stating an answer but coming to one on her own, she hugged him again fiercely.

It was nearly impossible to change one's eyes, but Jessi had managed it, had replicated Amanda's. To change one's eyes was to change oneself; it was the reason for her madness.

"You look so young." He ignored the understatement, focusing instead on the little boy who came running.

"Mom, who's that man?" The blond hair on his head was completely straight, and his face didn't have the soft features of his mother. "Why are you hugging him?"

She stared into his eyes as she pulled away, before turning to her son. "He's the friend you were named after, Kyle."

The boy brightened and smiled a bright smile. "You're Kyle? Nice to meet you!" He took a few tentative steps forward before rushing to give him a hug too. The boy separated quickly, and whispered to his mother directly in her ear. "He doesn't look like Kyle, mom."

"Look into his eyes," she whispered back.

He squinted and looked really closely, but didn't seem to really see it. "They're the same color, I guess."

Another boy walked into view, "Kyle," he said, getting both his and little Kyle's attention at once. The brown haired boy stopped shyly when he saw this.

Little Kyle said, "Yeah?" Amanda had clearly seen his reaction to his name. With a smile she mouthed that the other boy was her son's friend. With a wave, the boys ran back through the house to their games and their toys, shouting and yelling with glee.

Seeing his hesitation, she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the house. They sat close together in comfortable leather chairs. While she continued to gaze at him, at his strangeness, he absorbed the surroundings. Her old piano that he'd restored and tuned was in the corner, and several pictures of his old self were in picture frames, a few with her, a couple alone, and one with all his friends and family.

He sensed her tense up, and it brought his attention immediately back to her. "I never thought you'd ever come back," she whispered, squeezing his hand.

His oldest habit, one he'd thought lost forever, returned with a vengeance. He blurted out the entire truth, "If I hadn't saved my good friend Liz, I would never have made it here." He wondered if he'd ever tried before, but dismissed it, because it was unimportant. Besides, she was puzzled, to be sure, but he continued, "Without saving her life, she couldn't have saved mine. It's a long story, Amanda, but one I'd like to finally share with you."

He told her how he'd met Liz, the uncanny way it had happened, and how he'd cured her and how she had cured him over the last few days, especially this very morning. It took him two hours but neither had shed a tear, though Amanda grew quietly distressed and clearly felt his pain.

Evening was fast approaching, and someone's little stomach had started to rumble. Amanda excused herself, and started dinner as her son said goodbye to his friend.

Over a pot of boiling water, Amanda told him, "I'd love to meet her. Besides, she's probably getting worried you're not there." Something in her stance tried to tell him something, but he wanted to hear it from her mouth instead.

"Can I come back this evening?" he said naively, innocently.

Her stance relaxed – he realized he already knew the answer to his unspoken questions. In a way he disliked his abilities, the way he was, because few details eluded him. "Yes, but bring Liz with you." She turned briefly and smiled at him, "After nine though."

***

When he opened the door to the hotel room, Liz had just awakened and was reading his note with tears in her eyes. She turned to him, a small hopeful smile on her face. She stood, her hands clasped at her waist, and said, "Was she there?"

He didn't really want to answer her. Why love triangles were the norm for him was beyond him. "She'd like to meet you, and thank you for bringing me back." He walked up to her and hugged her then took her hand. "Come on, you'll meet her at nine, after Kyle's gone to bed."

He pulled her along, knowing her legs would stop at the boy's name.

Once back inside the car, he answered her question, even though Kyle had never received the confirmation from Amanda's lips. "Her marriage never survived me either. She named her son Kyle and sometime afterward the husband rebelled and left her. She's a single mom, and has been for years."

As he put the car into reverse, she picked at a gray hair on his head. "In the next few hours, you might see me age a little." He turned to her as he braked. "I love you too Liz."

"But she's your soul mate; I can tell." She put a hand to his shoulder. "Maybe you can help me find a good single guy." He smiled broadly – he could do that.

They went to the restaurant, where she ordered something randomly off the menu. She lived vicariously, trying things like she was new to life.

He promised himself to live his life, with Amanda, and when she finally died after a nice full life, he promised he would forever keep his heart warmer than stone. There would be no lasting grief. He knew he likely would survive her and little Kyle, and a number of generations after him. He wouldn't be sad, wouldn't regret.

When Amanda opened the door at exactly 9 o'clock that evening, he presented her with flowers and a nice solid kiss on the lips that left them both breathless. He knew her eyes would find Liz standing there beside them, all smiles. She relaxed in his embrace as they made up for a tiny bit of those lost years.

***

Liz was the happiest today than she had ever been. Sure, she would be even happier when she had someone of her own to love romantically, to cherish, but Kyle and Amanda were made for each other.

Kyle, despite looking a fair bit older, was absolutely stunning. She repressed the sigh of what could have been. She knew he was Amanda's and could live with that quite easily. Every day would bring something new, and she sensed that Amanda might know a few single guys who just didn't measure up to Kyle. Who could? She didn't need her standards to be quite so high.

She felt completely accepted by Amanda in no time. As they talked, they found they knew each other without ever having met until tonight and yet both felt they'd be good friends for a good long time. Life was meant to be lived. In stark contrast, mere existence floated like dust in the wind.


End file.
